


No Angels, No Demons

by crystallines



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Coffee Shops, M/M, Mortal AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5316218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystallines/pseuds/crystallines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ethan could set fire to the world. But he finds himself again, and, despite a canyon of silence stretching between them, he finds his way back to Luke, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Angels, No Demons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pipermclean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipermclean/gifts), [connorstoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/connorstoll/gifts).



> Edit 12/01/15: Someone pointed this out to me earlier today, and I realized I should've written a note on it, so: Admittedly, I haven't reread the Percy Jackson books in, like, _ages._ I can't quite recall the details of these characters, so please take note that, in this fic, Luke is one year older than Ethan. Thank you!!

Luke Castellan hates coffee.

It isn’t anything personal, really. It’s just that he particularly despises the _scent_ of it, more than anything, because the aroma is always warm and inviting and _homely_ , but the taste is—horrendous. Bitter, bitter, like the sting of betrayal.

He _hates_ coffee.

And Ethan knows it.

So when Castellan saunters into the Ivory Café accompanied by the jovial jingling of the bell on a rainy Saturday afternoon and asks, impeccably dazzling smile in place, for an espresso, of all things, Ethan, who is standing at the cash register and just barely repressing the urge to yawn, can’t do anything but _balk._

He freezes mid-yawn. 

“An espresso,” Ethan repeats slowly. Castellan only continues looking at him with that infuriating transparent smile plastered onto his face, and Ethan forces himself to restrain from gnashing his teeth together in frustration. 

“Without the sugar,” Castellan says, when Ethan fails to complete his sentence. He’s still smiling cheerfully. _Damn_ him. “Please,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

If Castellan hates coffee, then Ethan Nakamura hates _him._ He hates Castellan’s eyes, blue enough to fucking _drown_ in, and he hates the ragged scar that runs down the left side of Castellan’s face—it _should_ mar his appearance, except it _doesn't_ ; it does the exact opposite—and he hates the stupid easy grin that Castellan throws around carelessly like it doesn’t cost him anything, which—dammit—it probably doesn’t.

Ethan hates how he has an arm thrown around Thalia Grace’s shoulders most of all. 

He blinks once, slowly, trying to claw his way back to earth. “You heard the guy,” he calls over his shoulder, desperately hoping Lou Ellen, the new employee, will hear him. 

Ethan turns back to Castellan and begins, “That’ll be a dollar fifty—” but Castellan is already placing a two dollar bills on the counter. There’s nothing left to do except hand him his change—the five steel dimes are suddenly cold in Ethan’s palm—and he does so wordlessly, trying to hide the fact that he’s seething, veins coursing with an irrational rage that he can’t explain. Doesn’t _want_ to explain. 

He doesn’t do a very good job of it, if Thalia Grace’s raised eyebrow is anything to go by. 

Lou Ellen chooses that moment to approach the counter, steaming paper cup in hand. She’s only just begun working at the Ivory last week, but she learns quickly, and is a great deal more efficient in her tasks than Ethan was, when he first started. The top of her head just barely reaches Ethan’s shoulder, but she walks with a noticeable spring in her step, and laughs far too much. 

Ethan doesn’t hate _her_ , at least.

“An espresso, without the sugar!” she chirps, and she passes the cup to Castellan, who arches an eyebrow in what could have been amusement, if Ethan hadn’t seen his one corner of his lips falter just for a second.

Ethan thinks he knows why. He’s standing a foot away, and even his nostrils are picking up on the prominent perfume. Briefly, he wonders how Castellan is doing these days, and how bad things must be if he’s resorted to drinking _coffee_ , before remembering that it isn’t his place to fret over the other boy, not anymore. 

_Jesus._

When Castellan and Grace retreat to their usual table at the very back, Ethan watches him nudge his notebook towards her—again—before whirling around to face Lou Ellen. 

“I thought he hated coffee,” he hisses. 

Lou Ellen regards him critically. “Yeah, well, so did I. Maybe we were wrong, in the end. What’s your point?” 

“He can’t just go from _hating coffee_ to suddenly _liking_ it. What kind of person does that? You either can’t live without it or absolutely abhor it, and you can’t just change your goddamn mind overnight—” Ethan has to pause to suck in air. He doesn’t know why he it bothers him so much that Castellan has asked for a coffee today, but it does, and he doesn’t like it. And maybe he’s just childish or ridiculous or pathetic or all three, but he doesn’t like it when things change. 

_And oh, how things have changed._ The unbidden thought is bitter. Bitter, like... _coffee._

Lou Ellen is still watching him warily, and so he straightens and declares, “Luke Castellan can’t just suddenly decide that he likes coffee. It isn't _right._ ”

And it isn’t. Hell, _nothing’s_ been right, not since four years ago. 

\- - -

Ethan didn’t always hate Luke Castellan. In fact, he used to quite like him a bit, really. A _lot_ , even. In fact, there was trust between them, a sort of bond that Ethan had always cherished. Luke trusted him enough to allow him to read some, if not all, of his rough drafts, back in Ethan’s freshman year of college.

It was the simple things, at first. Selected diary entries, poems that Ethan sometimes didn’t understand, the occasional short story. And then Luke had confided in his dreams of getting published, which Ethan should have foreseen, but he… _hadn’t_ , for some reason.

Luke was a supremely talented writer. He strung words so easily, so perfectly, that it was hard to believe that he was often wide awake in four-thirty in the morning, gazing blankly at the wall of their dormitory with silent tears spilling down his cheeks and splashing onto his notebook. It was during times like these that Ethan would roll out of bed and gently tug at the back of Luke’s shirt, and they’d go to their college’s coffee shop—which, thank God, was open twenty-four hours a day, five days a week, and Ethan didn’t know how they _managed_ it, but he wasn’t complaining—just to consume worrisome amounts of caffeine. They’d stay up all night sitting at a café table together, talking and reveling in the comfort of one another’s presence. 

Luke always bought cups of strong black tea. Not coffee. He never ordered coffee, _because he fucking hated it._

The next morning, they both woke with tired eyes and angry storm clouds churning in their guts. And yet—Ethan never regretted a single second of the time he had spent time with Luke, even if it had been during the ungodly hours of the night. 

It was a strange feeling, all in all. But it was the good type of strange. It was the type of strange that had him waking up refreshed on weekends; it was the type of strange that made him sing along to pop songs on the radio at the top of his lungs in the car, where once he never would have dreamed of doing so.

Until, inevitably, he messed up. 

He _always_ messes up. He hated himself for it then, and he hates himself for it now.

Ethan remembers it clearly, however much he wishes he didn’t. How could he forget? There are certain words that leave a certain ineffable aching in his soul long after they are said. The memory of it, or perhaps the fact of it, dogs every step he takes during his waking hours. It plagues his few and furtive dreams at night. 

He thinks this is what people would call a mistake.

He recalls it like this: Snow crunching beneath the soles of Luke’s boots, a cold navy winter sky glaring down on them, the New Year’s countdown ticking away in Times Square. They were greeted with a welcome gust of warm air upon entering the shop, and they had chosen a table near the very back; their drinks were yet to come, Luke’s hands were resting on the tabletop, and Ethan wanted nothing more than to reach over and take those hands into his own.

In Ethan’s defense, he was tired and drowsy, delirious with lack of sleep. But he was making excuses. 

He still doesn’t know exactly what triggered it, really. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour and the knowledge that it would be a new year within several minutes. Maybe he was struck, suddenly, by the strangely soothing sound of Luke’s unguarded laughter. Maybe he just really, really liked Luke Castellan. 

Considering the lateness of the hour, Luke’s voice was thunderous as ever. “You know the word count goal I set for myself yesterday?” 

“Six thousand words?” Ethan remembered. 

Luke’s fingers had begun to drum aimlessly upon the tabletop. “ _Yeah_ , well, I surpassed it again.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

Luke swept his arm in a wide, disbelieving arc, and in doing so, very nearly intercepted the arm of the waitress, who was approaching their table with two mugs. She shot him a nasty glare and set the two mugs on the table with considerably more force than Ethan thought was strictly necessary.

Ethan was overcome with the ridiculous urge to laugh. Or—maybe it wasn’t ridiculous, because Luke was offering the waitress a sheepish grin, and it was—it was almost _endearing_ , or maybe it _was_ endearing, and there was no “almost” about it. Something in his chest blossomed with warmth.

Ethan was _wrecked_. Ruined. He was in love, and he needed to do something about it.

And at that point, palms warmed by his tea and Luke so near to him, he was struck by the notion, the sudden understanding that he could do anything he wanted. He could crush boulders beneath the soles of his feet. He could tell Luke about— _this._ This feeling.

He felt invincible. He felt _reckless_.

“I think it’s nice,” he said without thinking. “It’s nice motivated you are, I mean. I like it. I like _you_.”

Luke ran a hand through his hair. It glinted like spun gold in the dim light of the shop, and it took all of Ethan’s self control to refrain from reaching out to card his own fingers through it. 

“I like you, too, Ethan,” Luke said after a beat, one corner of his lips quirking upwards. Ethan’s heart stopped, but then Luke went on, “I admire you. And I’m grateful everything you’ve done for me. I know it’s probably tedious to stay up all night with me when you have classes the very next morning, but you do it anyway, and I couldn’t ask for a better friend—”

There was so much sincerity in Luke’s voice, etched in every crook and corner of his features; Ethan could practically feel the warmth radiating from his eyes. 

Ethan resisted the sudden urge to cringe.

“No, Luke,” he said, and he regretted the words the instant they left his mouth, but at that point it was far too late. “I meant—I meant that I _like_ you. I want to be yours.”

This was how Ethan knew he’d made a mistake: Luke blinked once, slowly, owlishly, and then he took his hands off the table. He studied Ethan closely, like he was a painting at a museum and Luke was having trouble analyzing it. 

Ethan quickly dropped his gaze to the tabletop. Suddenly Luke’s eyes on him were too intense. Dimly, he registered the cashier pausing and looking up from his smartphone to watch them curiously.

“Ethan.” Ethan wrung his hands beneath the table. Ignored him. “Ethan.”

This time he looked up and met Luke’s eyes reluctantly. The other boy was still scrutinizing him carefully, eyes roaming over his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose—and, just for a second—he let his eyes drop to Ethan’s mouth. And then Luke’s eyelids were slipping closed, and he was leaning forward, _towards Ethan_ , and his lips were parting ever so slightly like the petals of a blossoming flower, and Ethan found himself doing the same, heart pounding—

Luke pulled back so abruptly that he nearly toppled his chair backwards; he stood up quickly and righted it, breathing far too heavily for someone who hadn’t been running a marathon. He ran an agitated hand through his hair and looked everywhere except at Ethan.

“S—sorry, sorry,” he spluttered. “I shouldn’t—” He took a deep breath in an attempt to compose himself. “I should—I should go.” 

Ethan stood, too, pulse still thundering painfully against his chest, a brutal reminder of what _hadn't_ happened. “Are you okay? Do you want me to—?”

“No, it’s fine, I think it would be best if I went alone—it’s all right, really.” There was a scarlet flush painting his cheeks, his ears, even his neck. “I just need some air, is all.”

He raised a hand to his mouth and touched his bottom lip almost absently, as if checking to make sure it was still there, before drawing his hand back hastily. 

“Yeah, okay,” was all that Ethan could manage to say. His throat felt curiously constricted, as if a stone had lodged itself there.

When Luke made his way out of the shop, Ethan allowed himself to wonder exactly _what_ had just happened—or rather, what _hadn't_ happened. He thought—he thought they’d almost kissed, Jesus, and then—and then—

A wave of nausea swept through him; his legs refused to support his weight, and so he reclaimed his seat at his table again, an unpleasant stinging sensation swirling in his stomach.

Try as he might, he couldn’t shake off the aggravating sense that he had been…rejected. Though he hadn’t been, not really. 

_Had_ he? 

Ethan looked at the boy at the cash register for support, but as soon as their gazes met, he turned to face the other way, dropping his eyes back to the glowing blue screen of his smartphone. Ethan scowled at the back of the cashier’s head. 

By the time he made his way back to their dorms, Luke was already safely burrowed beneath his blankets, stomach flat against the mattress, head resting in the crook of his elbow. Though Ethan knew, more than anyone, that the pretense of slumber was all it was; a _pretense_. It was just an act. He had spent enough nights wide awake and listening to Luke’s breathing to know that, right now, his breaths were rising too quickly for him to _really_ be asleep.

As he settled on his own bunk and watched Luke subtly shift position, the thought occurred to him that he could hate Luke Castellan. He could hate Luke’s cowardice, and how he ran away from everything the way a mouse would slink away from a cat; he could hate how Luke stored the truth deep down within himself, inside a heavy metal safe with a combination long forgotten.

Except he _couldn't_ hate Luke, however much he wanted to. Most of all he hated himself, for desperately loving the fool in spite of everything. 

But it was easier to pretend to hate Luke.

\- - -

The next morning, Ethan’s boss walks into the Ivory Café in a flurry of hot pink—she’s clad in a cotton candy dress and cotton candy heels to match. Her name is Silena Beauregard, and she’s sweeter than iced tea; Ethan remembers that, once, Castellan was quite taken with her. 

“Hello, everyone!” she says, and her voice is brighter than the sun outside, which is on the verge of rising, painting the dawn sky with orange streaks of light. The shop’s only just opened for the day ten minutes ago, and so it’s still mostly empty; Ethan can hear the birds’ ethereal symphonies outside. He expects the morning rush to be slower than usual; it’s Sunday, after all, and most of his fellow college students will probably be at home or across the street at the library, frantically trying to finish an assignment they should have completed weeks ago. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Silena continues, making her way into the storage room and using two perfectly manicured fingers to push her stylish Prada sunglasses up so that they rest on the top of her auburn hair. “The bus got delayed yesterday, so we got back half an hour later than expected, and I set the alarm for the wrong time this morning— _hey,_ Lou, how’s it going?” 

Lou looks up from the table she’s wiping down. “Great!” she calls. “And how’ve _you_ been?” 

“Oh—fine, just fine,” Silena replies in a tone that is much too cheerful for her to be _just fine_ , and that’s when Ethan catches sight of the silver ring winking prettily on her finger. 

“You seem to be in a good mood today,” Ethan notes, with a pointed glance at the ring.

He knows this is the right thing to say when Silena breaks into a wide grin. 

“I was hoping you’d notice,” she admits. “Charlie proposed to me during our vacation.” 

Lou Ellen is standing by Ethan’s shoulder in a flash. “Oh, that’s _wonderful_!” she squeals, and her eyes are practically _sparkling_. “I’m so excited for you, Silena!”

Ethan allows a brief smile to steal across his face. “Finally,” he says, because Charles Beckendorf, an accomplished engineer from California, has been making moon eyes at Silena for _years_ , and half of the whole borough has probably placed bets on when he would finally ask for her hand. 

Ethan wonders if love really does bring happiness, or if love is just love. When, inevitably, Luke Castellan crosses his mind, the smile quickly dissolves from his face, and he frowns. 

It is Silena’s melodic voice, laced with concern, that rouses him from his reverie. 

“Ethan? Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” is his nearly automatic response, but Silena still looks at him doubtfully. She purses her lips and says nothing, and Ethan prays that she’ll leave it alone.

When the first customer of the day enters, she moves as if to greet the newcomer, but the feeling of immense relief hasn’t even completely registered with him yet when she says over her shoulder, “I’d like to talk you for a second after your shift,” before going to take up her station at the second cash register beside Ethan. 

And even as he’s smiling at the middle-aged woman who approaches the counter and passes a cappuccino over to her, something inside him is being pulled taut with tension. Hostility is rolling off of him in waves, and he hopes Silena won’t notice, but there’s no way she doesn’t, because whatever it is that’s being pulled—it's already snapping in two.

\- - -

Lou Ellen works only two hours instead of four on Sundays because she volunteers at the library, so by the time bestselling mystery author Luke Castellan steps into the Ivory Café with editor Thalia Grace— _“I couldn’t have gotten this far without her kind input and critical eye, she’s a goddess, really,”_ Ethan has read in the acknowledgments section of his latest novel, to which he has rolled his eyes so far back into his head that his chair toppled backwards—at his arm, Ethan doesn’t have any moral support. 

And maybe it’s just him, but he thinks that there’s nothing more painful than treating someone who used to be your best friend like nothing more than a stranger. It _hurts_ —it hurts like bullet wounds, like snake venom, like gasoline in his throat; it stings, burns more than the hottest tear that rolls down his cheeks in secret. 

He thinks it’s probably just him.

“So what’ll it be?” he asks, false smile frozen into place. He still half expects Luke to ask for black tea, though judging from the day before, he probably won’t. And so when Castellan orders the same thing from yesterday—another espresso, not even with the sugar—Ethan frowns to himself. Castellan _never_ drinks coffee. 

Something, he thinks, is definitely wrong.

He can’t help Castellan anymore, though, not with four years’ worth of silence stretching between them. Not when Luke regards him with a blank stare like that; it’s such a long way off from the warm gaze he used to reserve for Ethan, the one that warmed his usually cold blue eyes and sent an odd thrill down Ethan’s spine.

The fact of this helplessness despairs him to no end. It’s like—it’s like watching someone _suffer_ , and he knows he _could_ help, only there’s something blocking his path and he can’t really place what it is. The only thing he does know is that he doesn’t like it. At all.

Ethan passes the steaming paper cup to Castellan—wordlessly, and with a carefully neutral expression, as always—and neglects to wrap a cardboard sleeve around it. The cup scorches his fingers like the desert sun, but seeing Castellan handle the cup tentatively and eyeing it warily is enough to compensate. When Ethan sees Castellan wince slightly and switch hands, he lets himself smirk. 

Thalia Grace doesn’t say anything; Ethan doesn’t expect her to. Instead she makes her way towards their usual table, laptop bag slung over her shoulders. Ethan can’t help but study her eyes, sky blue and fierce as an electric shock, the stiff, rigid set of her shoulders, and how her lips are a stern solid line, and wonder why exactly Castellan thinks her a goddess. Perhaps it’s the fact that the shock of her short, messy hair is the color of ink. _Ink._ Writers _love_ ink. 

The lunchtime rush has died down considerably, and Ethan can count six tables that are occupied by customers. Most of them are regulars and fail to bat even a single eyelash at Castellan and Grace. They’re either chatting animatedly with their companions or typing away on their laptops, headphones no doubt blaring into their ears and rendering them blissfully ignorant to the buzz of conversation, the clatter of cheap silverware, and Ethan brooding silently at the counter. 

If he’s being honest, he’s beginning to like this café, a little. It’s where he’s worked for three _years_ , and he’s gotten so accustomed to checking in on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, that it feels almost like a second home to him. He’s gotten accustomed to Silena’s kindness, even if it _is_ a bit too much for him sometimes, and he’s gotten accustomed to Lou Ellen’s enthusiasm. But when Castellan walks into this small establishment at the very end of the block at exactly two-thirty every evening, he feels like he’s been invaded. _Attacked_ , even. 

It’s hard enough to work in a coffee shop—the couples sharing coffee over a table are a constant cruel reminder of what they could have been. Seeing Castellan himself every time he works his shifts here is just… _too much_. It’s adding insult to the injury.

The smaller, more logical part of him knows that he _will_ heal, over time, but it’s been almost four years and patience is a virtue he’s never had. Looking at Castellan still feels like several—no, _countless_ —shards of glass piercing his chest. Looking at Castellan _with Grace_ sends ice coursing through his veins, because Grace—Grace is sort of like Ethan’s replacement. 

And being replaced kind of sucks.

His eye rakes over them now. He examines how Castellan chews on the end of his blue ballpoint pen the way he always did, how Grace points to something on his papers and heaves a long-suffering sigh before saying something that causes his shoulders to adopt a defensive stance. Castellan says something else, to which Grace merely knits her eyebrows together and frowns slightly. 

Something ugly works its way through Ethan’s bloodstream; the fibers of his being rattle and shake unpleasantly, but he stands frozen at the cash register with no movement belying his severe agitation.

He counts to a hundred in his head before making his way to the storage room, where Silena is surveying their supplies, clipboard in hand and an expression of intense concentration decorating her beautiful features. She doesn’t hear Ethan approach. 

“Silena,” he says, and she jumps slightly before realizing who spoke and smiling warmly. 

“Hey,” she says. “Need help with anything?” 

“I thought I should tell you,” starts Ethan, “that I just remembered I had an appointment right after today’s shift. Can’t stay late today—should’ve mentioned it before, sorry, it just sort of…slipped my mind…” He trails off when he catches Silena regarding him skeptically, like he’s something she can’t quite believe. 

He can't quite believe himself, either.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Text me when you get back, though, okay? You have my number, I know you do.” 

Ethan tells her that he will, though he knows he won’t. Part of him feels guilty for lying to Silena, who’s never done anything but offer him truth after truth after truth, but he shuts down the thought before it can urge him to change his mind. 

He thanks Silena because it’s the least he can do after lying to her face—he doesn’t want to think about how easily it came to him—and, when his shift is over, he unties his charcoal-colored apron and hangs it on one of the racks in the storage room. He greets Alabaster Torrington cordially enough—he’s just arrived to take over Ethan’s place—and he only realizes that he’s left his jacket behind when he walks out into the relentless rain, pattering on rooftops and splashing on his shoes.

And he’ll hate himself for it later, but he looks over his shoulder at Castellan and Grace against his better judgment. This moment happens to be exactly when Luke chooses to look up from his notebook, and he meets Ethan’s eye for all of two seconds before averting his gaze and focusing it on Grace instead. 

It doesn’t matter that Ethan’s forgotten his jacket, after all. No amount of wind or snow or rain could ever be as frigid as the cold claw closing over his heart. 

\- - -

Ethan’s studio apartment is a clutter of textbooks, stacks of binder paper, clothes, half empty bottles of Gatorade, photo albums and address books, gel pens that ran out of ink long ago, a folding chair he never really uses, a coffee table, and a couch thrown in for good measure. Except—no, that isn’t true. The couch is where he _sleeps_. It’s where he sits to do his homework. It’s where he once kissed his former roommate Chris Rodriguez.

The affair didn’t last very long, because Chris wanted someone who was emotionally stable, and Ethan wanted Castellan. 

Everything seemed to be about Castellan in those days.

Christ.

Ethan moved out of the dormitories in his sophomore year of college, though now he often catches himself wishing he hadn’t. His apartment is a _mess_ , and it's cold and lonely and miserable.

His gaze lands on the little mirror he has propped up on the coffee table. It was given to him by his mother as a high school graduation gift. “It’s something you can use to remember me by,” she’d told him. She hasn’t contacted him in a year now, and he vaguely wonders if she even remembers that she has a son, before chiding himself. A lawyer is no doubt kept busy every second of every day, all caught up in the tangle of fates like that, he thinks. 

Ethan never looks in the mirror, anyway. He _can’t_ , not without his roaming eyes taking note of every blemish and imperfection. And his gaze never skips over the prominent eye patch he has to wear over his left eye because of an accident in fourth grade where he mistook skateboarding to be an easy thing, and crashed into a—

He doesn’t finish the thought. 

He isn’t sad, exactly, but he isn’t _happy_ , either. It’s as if he’s drifting from one day to the next, carried by an endless wind, and maybe part of him wants that wind to cease, but it _doesn’t matter_ what he thinks, anyway, because he can’t control anything. He’s sort of like a ghost—he’s present and solid and _real_ , at least to some extent, but he’s hollow on the inside and doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore. 

His phone buzzes in his back pocket and he drops the framed photo he was studying in shock. The glass shatters with a sharp tinkling sound like a heart breaking; a rogue shard nicks Ethan’s bare foot and he swears beneath his breath.

It’s probably just Silena, anyway. She’s the only one who ever makes an effort to contact him these days. 

It’s only when he gently places the photograph back on the table that he realizes the nature of the shot. A closer look, a brief moment of studious inspection, confirms his suspicions. It depicts him and Castellan, standing in front of the Bronx Museum of the Arts four years ago, arms thrown around one another’s shoulders, faces split in half by wide grins. Castellan’s face is crimson from the October wind, and Ethan is overcome by a sudden wave of nostalgia that he quickly stomps down. 

He wants—he wants to cry, or laugh, or do something, but he doesn’t. Instead he scavenges the various photo albums scattered on the tiles of his apartment floor, and he takes the museum picture along with any other pictures of Castellan he can find, and tries not think about just how many he has. Gingerly sidestepping the mess of broken glass, he tears all of them in half with a certain sort of intensity, like a knight plunging a sword through a chest. 

Ethan feels nothing as he does this, this wild act of betrayal. He feels nothing; he sees nothing; he _is_ nothing.

He chokes back a hysterical laugh and wonders how aggravating it must be to truly exist.

\- - -

Ethan suffers through eight hours of classes—it’s his last year, and then he’ll be free to pursue whatever vague dreams he has—before catching the bus and heading for the library, where he stays for two hours staring at Calculus problems that make little sense to him. It’s only when the numbers begin to swim on the pages before him that he packs his books and heads to the Ivory Café for his short two-hour afternoon shift.

He prays to every deity he knows that Silena won’t call him out on ignoring her texts.

All of these prayers are _futile._

“You said you’d text me when you got home,” Silena accuses him, and Ethan winces when he sees the stern set of her jaw, and her typically gentle expression gruesomely contorted by annoyance. He doesn’t even want to think about the fire he can see blazing in her crystalline irises. 

“I know, I know,” he says quickly, a whole trail of lies making its way into his mind, fast as lightning or maybe even faster. “I went to visit a friend of mine after my appointment, and my phone couldn’t get a signal, so I didn’t get your texts until—”

“A friend of yours?” Silena inquires curiously. “Who?”

Ethan resists the urge to cringe. He doesn’t _have_ any friends, and Silena knows it. He should’ve known better than to lie to her—she knows everything about everything. He even suspects she might know about Castellan.

Just then the bell at the door chimes cheerfully, signaling someone’s entrance. He looks over his shoulder at the newcomer.

It’s Thalia Grace.

“Her,” Ethan says without thinking. He’s about to do something incredibly stupid, but he catches himself just in time. But then he throws caution to the wind. Desperate times, he thinks, call for desperate measures. 

“Thalia!” he calls, and he waves to her, ignoring the part of his mind that insists on calling him a complete idiot. 

She looks taken aback for a second, but then she gives a curt nod in Ethan’s direction. “Nakamura.” 

Ethan slumps in relief before turning to face Silena. “See?”

Her eyes travel from Ethan to Grace and back. “Right,” she intones, slowly, like she’s trying to find the right letters during the last round of a spelling bee. 

“Hey, Silena,” Grace says, and a jolt of panic prickles on Ethan’s skin. He didn't know that they were on a first-name basis. Grace could blow Ethan’s cover. Grace could—

“Hello, Thalia!” The smile on Silena’s face is so bright, so genuine, so real, that it would be hard to guess that there’d been a furrow on her brows only a second ago. “What can I do for you today?”

“Actually—” Grace begins, but Silena doesn’t give her the chance to finish. 

“Looking for Bianca again?”

Inexplicably, Grace _blushes._

Ethan frowns. He’s worked a few shifts with Bianca di Angelo—another employee—before, but the girl is quiet, reserved. She’s a bit like a locked door; closed fast and immovable to everyone except for those who have the keys. 

Ethan hasn’t even _tried_ looking for the keys.

“Yeah,” Grace admits in a voice that Ethan might have considered sheepish, if he thought Thalia Grace capable of innocent emotions like that. “Has she been around?” 

“I haven’t seen her lately, now that you mention it,” Silena tells her. “Her next shift’s scheduled for this Saturday, though, so if you’d like to catch her then—”

“What about Lou?” Ethan interrupts, straightening from where he was leaning against the sleek glass surface of the pastry case.

“Lou?” Silena repeats. “What about her?” 

“ _She_ usually works shifts on weekends.”

Grace shoots him an annoyed glance.

“Not this weekend,” Silena says. “Didn’t she tell you? I thought she did. She was practically bursting with excitement when she got the news—”

“What news?” 

“Luke asked her to lunch on Saturday,” Grace says, before Silena can.

“Luke?” Ethan repeats incredulously. “As in Luke _Castellan_?” 

Grace only rolls her eyes. “How many people named Luke do you know?”

“Like, five,” Ethan retorts. Another lie. He only knows two people named Luke. 

“Are they going on a date?” Silena asks. Ethan thinks he sees her cast him a furtive glance. 

“Oh, no.” Grace actually _laughs_. The sound is...not all that unpleasant, and it isn't grating, either, the way Ethan expected it would be. “Luke hasn’t dated anyone since, like, his sophomore year of college.” 

“That’s—” Ethan begins, but then he stops himself. He doesn’t know what to say. This new revelation is…uplifting, almost. He’s enlightened. Relieved. 

“So why _did_ he ask her to lunch, then?” Silena inquires conversationally. 

Grace frowns. “Actually, I don’t know. Maybe they _are_ going on a date, after all.”

Silena is watching Ethan closely, presumably to gauge his reaction. He ignores both of them and retreats to the storage room under the pretense of searching for supplies.

\- - -

The rest of the week passes by in a blur of midterm exams and late nights spent studying and trying very hard not to cave in. Saturday rolls around, and with it comes Bianca di Angelo, who leaves with Grace right after their shift is over.

Grace and Bianca act— _different_ around each other. Bianca talks more; sometimes Grace actually smiles. Which is… _weird_ , since, before, Ethan always assumed that Grace was seeing Castellan.

He hates being wrong. 

And he didn’t even know that Castellan and Lou Ellen were speaking terms. He wonders if he’s wrong to feel betrayed. After all, he and Lou aren’t _friends_ , exactly, and Castellan was never his to lose, anyway.

On Sunday, Ethan expects Lou to report in pink-cheeked and smiling even wider than usual, perhaps even bouncing on the balls of her feet. He checks in early and awaits Lou’s presence with a sort of trepidation settling over his shoulders, idly drumming his fingers on the countertop in a rhythm that matches his heartbeat. 

He needn’t have worried, because Lou doesn’t come in pink-cheeked and smiling even wider than usual. Instead she walks in with a happy but tired smile and takes up her station near the cluster of syrups and coffee machines and whatnot that Silena lovingly calls the kitchen, rubbing her eyes with one hand and attempting a “Morning, Ethan” that’s promptly cut off by a yawn. 

“So how’d your date go?” Ethan asks, finally giving in to his curiosity when the silence stretching between them becomes much too long for his liking. 

To his utter surprise, Lou Ellen barks out a laugh. “Date? _What_ date? If you’re talking about that thing with Castellan, then that wasn’t a date. That was just— _well._ ” She blows out a breath. “He asked a lot of… _questions_.”

“Questions? About what?” 

“The Ivory. Me. Silena. _You._ He asked about _you._ ” 

“He did?” Ethan raises a single skeptical eyebrow and hopes she can’t hear the deafening drumming of his pulse. “I—that’s—”

“Don’t worry—I didn’t say anything bad about you. He didn’t, either. Quite the contrary, in fact.” She ties her apron with deft hands, and Ethan opens his mouth to ask just what the hell, exactly, she means by that, but then she looks up sharply as if she’s just remembered something.

“And he’s terrible, too!” she exclaims. “He’s so—he’s so _pretentious_ , and he romanticizes _everything_!”

“He’s a writer,” says Ethan. Silena, leaning against the door to the storage room, cracks a slight smile.

Two thirty comes and goes, and Castellan still doesn’t make his way through the doors. Ethan keeps his gaze leveled at the entrance, and he can’t shake off the disappointment weighing on his shoulders each time the bell chimes and it’s not a tall blond head that appears. Ethan finds that he’s…curious. He wants to talk to Castellan, wants to figure out why the other boy has resorted to drinking coffee, which he’s always abhorred, wants to help him if anything’s wrong.

By two forty-seven, he’s about to conclude that Castellan really isn’t going to show up, but then he _does_ , and he completely bypasses the counter this time, much to Ethan’s chagrin, instead making his way towards the table he and Grace usually share, and he sets his blue ballpoint pen to his journal without further ado. 

That’s when Ethan realizes that Grace isn’t with him, for once. 

“Oh, yeah.” Lou Ellen, standing at Ethan’s elbow, inclines her head in Castellan’s general direction. “ _That’s_ him. The pretentious writer I mentioned earlier.” 

“Don’t be rude, Lou,” Silena chides her, but she’s laughing, too.

Ethan nods wordlessly, deigning not to answer. He spares a glance at the wall clock. Ten more minutes, and then his shift ends and he’s free to roam, and he’s feeling a hauntingly familiar surge of recklessness that he can’t really _deny._ He can only hope that Castellan’s planning on staying at least ten minutes longer.

The time ticks by, and he’s still at his table, wrist moving so quickly across the paper that Ethan wonders if the guy’s hand ever cramps from all the writing he does.

When it’s time for him to leave, he hangs up his apron in the storage room and says goodbye to Lou Ellen, but instead of answering, she pulls him into a hug—she’s never stopped hugging him, not even when she realized that he’s never hugged her back—and says “See you next week!” before shouldering her handbag and breaking into a run to catch her bus home. 

Coming out from behind the counter, he waves to Silena next. “Bye, Silena. Thanks again.” 

She beams at him; her teeth are the color of pearls, and she has the radiance of a thousand suns. “Don’t mention it. You deserve so much more, though.” She shakes her head, lowers her gaze to the ground, and smiles to herself. “Good night, Ethan.” 

Ethan frowns, but he still manages to say, “Night, Silena,” even though it’s only just past three o’clock and there’s no trace of the moon or any of the stars. 

He’s about to leave the shop when he sees Castellan, still scribbling almost frantically in his journal. Ethan wonders if he still stays up till four in the morning. He wonders if he has anyone to take him to a twenty-four hour coffee shop and listen to him rant all night. He wonders if he still uses wide hand gestures in the act of describing his work.

The seat across from him is still strangely vacant, and Ethan’s traitorous conscience slides an image of him sitting in that seat to the front of his mind. He thinks he should’ve pushed it away as if burned, but he doesn’t allow himself the time to stop and really think about what he’s going to do. He tells his legs to stop, once he realizes that they’re moving, but his actions aren’t corresponding with his thoughts. The sound of his sneakers striking the tiled floor would have been deafening, if only the thud-thud-thud of his racing heart hadn’t drowned it out.

By the time he’s standing at Castellan’s table, the other boy has already registered his presence. Ethan’s heart does an odd twist that feels vaguely familiar to him and he’s trying to place where he’s felt like this before when he realizes—he realizes that Castellan is smiling at him.

He doesn’t deserve to be smiled at. 

“Hey,” Castellan says, and his face is like the sky at dawn. 

“Hey,” Ethan says back. He speaks cautiously; he’s testing the waters and he’s unwilling to let down his guard. But then it occurs to him that that sort of reply will do little to breathe life into the conversation, and he grapples for something else to say. 

Eventually he comes up with, “You know, I’ve never asked you what you’re writing about, these days.”

“Well, are you going to?” 

“I just did.”

“You didn’t. You said—”

Ethan resists the urge to roll his eyes. Barely. “Castellan, you know what I meant.” 

When Castellan’s smile widens, Ethan is overcome with the desire to turn away—he knows Castellan shouldn’t be smiling at him, not like _that_ , as if their friendship wasn’t a vase that Ethan had accidentally knocked over, years and years and years ago. They can’t pretend that the broken shards aren’t still littering the ground, waiting to sink into either of their flesh—at least, Ethan can’t—but that’s what Castellan seems intent on doing.

And Ethan _can’t_ look away, in any case. He’s transfixed. 

He just wishes they were still on a first-name basis.

“You’re still the same, aren’t you?” Castellan says, not unkindly. If anything, he sounds _teasing_. He gestures to the empty chair across from him, the one Thalia Grace usually occupies, and Ethan hesitates, despite his earlier short-lived fantasies of sitting in the very chair that Castellan has just indicated. 

Then Castellan says, “Sit down. I’ve got lots to tell you,” and Ethan can’t do anything but lose his internal struggle and give in. 

But he’s sort of won, too. Sort of. In a vague kind of way that somehow makes a lot of _sense_ to him.

\- - -

Ethan finds out that Castellan still sweeps his arms in wide arcs when he gets excited about— _anything_ , really, not just his writing. He still stays up until four in the morning, but Ethan quickly figures out that he doesn’t have anyone to turn to in the midst of these lonely hours, and he’s been in a creative slump lately, which is why he’s taken to- drinking coffee (in the hopes of having a sudden caffeine-induced inspiration, he tells Ethan, and Ethan responds to that with, “You do know that tea has more caffeine, don’t you?”).

Somewhere along the way, Castellan asked Ethan to read something of his, and Ethan agreed, expecting him to extract a manuscript from his back pocket, or his laptop bag, or _anything_. What he didn’t expect was Castellan saying, “It’s still at home, though. I haven’t transferred it to my computer or anything yet, and it’s a really, really rough draft. It’s a side project I’m keeping secret from Thalia. Except it’s not…really a project. It’s just something I’m doing for fun, you know. A sort of stress outlet.” 

_A stress outlet,_ Ethan thinks. _What happened? Why do you feel this way?_ “Why don’t you want her to know?” Ethan asked instead. 

“She thinks I’m dedicating all of my time to the book I’m supposed to be working on,” Castellan admitted. “Best to keep it that way, I think. Anyway, it’s a yes, isn’t it? You’ll check it out?”

“Y-yeah,” Ethan stuttered, suddenly feeling very faint. He’d only planned on talking to Luke for a brief second, saying hello, asking how he was doing in his new life as a world-famous author, how his new book was coming along. “I will.”

Then again, he hadn’t had a plan in the first place, really. His body had only reacted to something like a gravitational pull, as if his atoms were straining towards Castellan’s. It was something that he’d tried to resist for the past four years, something that he didn’t think he could avoid for any longer—something that he had no choice but to give into.

Instead he was being invited to Castellan’s own home, where he would be allowed to read Castellan’s own work once more.

It was like something from his daydreams.

_Christ._

This is why Ethan finds himself standing at the door of an unremarkable cream-colored two-story building after school that following Tuesday, having a stare-down with the doorbell and trying to muster the courage to press his finger to it. 

He takes a deep breath. Another. Another. Another. He imagines that, with each breath, he is dragging courage into his lungs.

He’s about to extend a finger towards it when he remembers that his backpack is still slung over one shoulder. He pauses, wondering if Castellan will view him as nothing more than an oblivious college student because of it. Castellan is only one year his senior, but the fact remains that he’s finished with school, and established himself an exceptional reputation in an unrealistically short amount of time, and—

Ethan presses the doorbell.

From outside on the steps, he can vaguely hear its chime resonating throughout the interior of the house, the street beyond, perhaps even the world, and it sends a sharp prickle of anxiety crawling down his spine and searing his skin. 

The door flies open a split second later, revealing a smug-looking Luke Castellan with reading glasses—actual _reading glasses_ , black-framed and gray-hinged—perched on his nose. 

“Finally,” he says. “I was wondering when—or even _if_ —you were going to press the doorbell.” 

Ethan winces. Castellan must have been spying on him through the windows. “How long have you been watching?” 

“Long enough, I think.” Ethan’s cheeks promptly burst into flame, and Castellan smirks. “Come in, will you? It’s freezing out here.”

Ethan follows Castellan into a hallway lined with framed reproductions of Impressionist paintings, taking care to toe off his worn sneakers. Castellan leads him into what he thinks must be the living room, and the amount of clutter takes him by surprise—jackets have been thrown carelessly over the arms of the sofa against the wall, a plate littered with crumbs from a past meal is lying forlorn and forgotten on the table in front of it, and Castellan’s smartphone is blasting obnoxious country music from somewhere in the room.

“Sorry for the mess,” Castellan says, mistaking the shock on Ethan’s face for something like disapproval. “I haven’t cleaned up in ages. I never have the time anymore.”

Ethan smiles wryly. “If you’d seen my apartment, you wouldn’t be apologizing for the state of your living room. In fact, I think you’d be feeling proud of yourself.” 

Castellan scrutinizes him for a long moment. Then he says. “You’re right. I’ve never seen your apartment. You should invite me over sometime.” 

Ethan stares. 

When Ethan continues to do nothing more than stare, Castellan grins. “I was joking.” 

“Oh,” Ethan manages. He tries to fight off the sensation of disappointment threatening to overcome him. “I was—I just didn’t expect you to be disorganized. I thought you had books lining the shelves in alphabetical order, or something.”

Castellan gives him a sidelong glance. “I think all artists are a little fucked up in some way.” 

“Yeah,” Ethan says after a beat. He remembers when Castellan said that, four years ago, when someone at school asked him why his he never bothered to clean up his constantly messy workspace. _Castellan hasn’t changed all that much_ , Ethan thinks. At least, not that he can see. It’s still too early to judge.

“So where’s that thing you wanted to show me?” he asks, smiling to himself, because—even after a ridiculously vast sea of time separating them for _this long_ —it’s _still_ easy to be with Castellan.

And when Castellan smiles back, this time Ethan meets his gaze, and he wonders why he ever even thought of turning away.

Castellan’s eyes on him are like a comet hurtling through the sky, and there’s a ninety percent chance that it’ll crash into him. Ethan doesn’t move; he _can’t_ move. It’s beautiful to watch, but terrifying, too.

“I left it somewhere here—” Castellan purses his lips and looks around the room. He ambles towards the table and looks through the stacks of journals, before emerging victorious with a— _sketchbook._

“An art project?” Ethan interjects. How many talents does Castellan _really_ have? 

For the briefest of moments, Castellan looks wounded. “Are you saying that writing isn’t—?”

“ _No_ ,” Ethan hastens to say. “No, of course writing is an art. I just meant—that’s a sketchbook, isn’t it? Are you drawing something?” 

“It’s a comic book, or it’s going to be.” Luke flips through the book until he finds the page he’s looking for, and then he passes it to Ethan. 

Ethan can see that the pages are etched with rough, jagged panels sketched roughly in pencil and obviously without the use of a ruler. There are speech bubbles within these panels, and, in Castellan’s messy scrawl, the first one on the left says, _“What did you do?”_ There’s a blank panel in the center, presumably to signify a pause or a moment of silence, and then the right one says, _“I dared to love someone.”_

“Where are the pictures?” Ethan asks, because those are the only things that are missing from this comic; _pictures_. 

“Ah,” says Luke, and Ethan looks up from the sketchbook. “That’s where I need your help.” 

\- - -

Ethan takes to visiting Luke on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school. He tells himself that the only reason why he continues doing so is because he might be able to squeeze a recommendation letter out of the guy—for job applications, and things like that, he thinks hazily—but even _he_ can’t lie to himself, and he’s good at lying. 

The truth is that he’s enjoying helping with Luke’s secret dystopian comic book project. He’s discovered that he’s not all that bad of an artist, really, and Luke seems to quite like his rough pencil drawings, in any case. 

_Or maybe you just enjoy his presence in general_ , a snide voice in the corner of his mind remarks, and Ethan hastily shoves the thought away even as he wipes down one of the tables in the café with a cloth on a suspiciously sunny Saturday evening. Even if it’s true, he thinks, it would be in his best interest to stop feeling certain _things_ toward Luke. The original wound hasn’t even healed properly yet. He can't take this risk.

 _Luke._ Somewhere along the way, both of them slipped back into old habits, and now, without even trying, they’re on a first-name basis again.

He examines the previously pristine fibers of the white cloth he’s used, now smudged with varying shades of golden brown, before dropping it into the sink in the kitchen to wash.

\- - -

_I’m not even seeing Luke_ is the first unfiltered thought that crosses Ethan’s mind as soon as the lights in his apartment halfheartedly flicker on, showering the room in a warm golden glow.

It’s Monday night and he’s only just gotten back home, strangely drained of energy after the usual panic of college and the frantic rush at the café. He’s about to choose to ignore the fact that it’s only seven o’clock and retire for the night when his cellphone buzzes against the floor where he left it. 

_Probably Silena_ , he thinks, and he can’t help but remember how upset she’d been the last time he’d ignored her texts. It’s with this thought in mind that he gropes blindly for his phone in the dark, fingers brushing against the cold tile, until finally he finds the device—which isn’t just _buzzing_ , he realizes a little belatedly, it’s _ringing_ —and holds it a considerable distance from his eye, ready to accept the call and tell Silena that he’s perfectly fine, he remembered to drink eight glasses of water today, and that he _can take care of himself_. He’s twenty, after all. Nearly twenty-one. 

Except it isn’t Silena. 

It’s Luke Castellan. 

Ethan hesitates. The sound of the phone’s shrill shrieking, if anything, seems to grow louder in the dark. 

He accepts the call.

“Hello?” he says, except it sounds more like an incomprehensible squeak. He hastily clears his throat and opens his mouth to try again, but before he can, Luke speaks. 

His voice is crackly and distorted by the speakers, but he doesn’t waste time with any small talk and skips right to the point instead. “ _Hey_. This is Ethan’s number, right? It’s Luke. Can I come over?”

Ethan’s mind wanders to all the pictures of Luke that are still lying in his trash bin. “Um— _why_?”

There’s a cacophony of background noise from Luke’s end—the clatter of silverware, the low murmur of chatter. Perhaps, Ethan realizes with a strange sinking sensation, he’s at another coffee shop. The Ivory had closed for the night only an hour ago.

“I want to show you something,” says Luke, and, despite himself, Ethan smiles. There’s a warm feeling spreading through his bones, his atoms, seeping through his skin, and he’s new to it. He simultaneously hates himself for it and thinks he could definitely get used to it. 

It’s been a while since he’s been happy. 

“Okay,” Ethan says into the phone, even as he’s rising from the sofa and turning the lights back on. “When do you want to come over?” 

“Right now I’m at the Starbucks on the first floor of your apartment building,” Luke tells him, “so just give me ten to fifteen minutes, and I’ll be there. Cool?”

“Cool,” says Ethan. He hears Luke laugh before hanging up. 

True to his word, Luke shows up at Ethan’s door exactly twelve minutes later. When Ethan goes to answer it, the first thing he notices is that Luke is decked out in black jeans and a scarlet varsity jacket, and he’s even taken the liberty to— _slick back his hair._

Ethan swallows before asking, “So how’d you get my number?” 

“You _gave_ it to me,” says Luke, a frown stealing across his perfectly chiseled features. “Remember? Back in your freshman year?”

Ethan knows this, of course. But that warm tingly feeling is setting his nerves on fire again, like a volcano is erupting somewhere in his chest, and it makes him feel better that Luke never deleted his number, because Ethan never deleted Luke’s, either.

It could mean nothing at all, of course. Judging by the slight pink tinge slowly creeping up Luke’s pale cheeks, though, Ethan decides that it doesn’t. 

“Right,” says Ethan. “So, what was it you wanted to show me?”

Ethan expects Luke to take a seat at the sofa, but he drops down on the cold tiled floor instead, promptly unzipping his backpack and rummaging through it. For a long moment, the only sounds are the crinkling of whatever loose leaf papers Luke has stashed in his pack, and the faint _thwap_ as his notebooks collide against each other within its confines.

Ethan lowers himself next to him on the floor, taking extra care to make sure that their knees are a respectful distance away so that they have no chances of touching. If the tiles were cold against his bare feet, they’re positively _frigid_ on his calves. He wonders why he never thought to go down to the people at the front desk and complain about the broken heating system in his apartment. 

“Oh, _there_ we are,” Luke says suddenly, emerging at last with a small spiral notebook. The lime-green cover is undecorated except for the initials L.C. scratched in permanent Sharpie ink. Ethan recognizes it as the special book that Luke reserves for his—

“Your plot outlines?” Ethan asks incredulously. “You want to show me your _plot outlines_? Seriously?” Shouldn’t Thalia be the one looking over his outlines? 

Luke only nods solemnly before turning to a bookmarked page in his notebook. He turns it sideways, and Ethan can see a basic plot outline diagram has been hastily sketched, sprawling the length of two pages: a vertical line, a diagonal line, and a triangular peak like the cap of a mountain, followed by another diagonal line and another vertical line. Luke has so much writing cramped onto the pages that Ethan doesn’t even try to read it all. 

“I’m working on a side project,” Luke says. 

“Oh, not again.” 

Ethan can’t help the flood of amusement he experiences when Luke draws himself up defensively. “This one’s _good_ —for me, anyway. It’ll be good for me to explore new areas of writing. New genres, you know. That sort of stuff.” 

When Luke levels a challenging glare at him, Ethan smiles. “Okay,” he says, and he can feel himself grinning, “I was only teasing. What’s this one about?” 

Luke’s ears turn scarlet, and Ethan stares, mystified by the sight. Then Luke clears his throat—several times—and manages to choke out, “It’s a short story.” 

“Great,” Ethan says, when Luke fails to elaborate. It’s odd of him, he thinks, to be this reluctant about sharing his ideas. “What sort of short story?” 

“It's..romance,” Luke admits, and Ethan grins, because in the fourth book of Luke’s mystery series, the main character’s love interest was found dead in a coffee shop. Romance isn’t exactly something that Luke specializes in. Anyone could see that. “It’s…not one of my strong suits. So I thought I’d practice, just in case.” 

“So you chose _me_ to help you?” Ethan demands. “Why not Thalia? She’s your _editor_ , man. And—and what makes you think I’d be big on romance, anyway?” 

“Thalia’s been going to see Bianca more and more often lately, so I haven’t been able to reach her. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to, because she’s seemed pretty happy lately and I wouldn’t want to ruin that for her. And, in answer to your question…” Luke hesitates. He studies a spot in the air just past Ethan’s ear. “Well, you’ve had your heart broken before, haven’t you?” 

Ethan cringes slightly at the phrase. His heart isn’t made of glass, like the picture frame he accidentally dropped a few weeks ago. His heart is nothing more than a muscle that pumps blood into his veins, the main headquarters in his churning mechanism of a body. It’s his _mind_ that’s been wounded; it’s his mind that Luke has unintentionally crawled into, and it’s his thoughts that keep him awake at night—his thoughts of Luke, which his mind provide, even during the most inappropriate of times, like—like _now_ , for instance. 

He’s mortified when he realizes that, during the time he’s been lost in thought, Luke has been staring openly at him. He hopes Luke hasn’t been staring for _too_ long.

“Yeah,” Ethan finds himself admitting, despite himself. He looks into the depths of Luke’s eyes; they’re so, so blue. Bluer than the sky, than the sea—bluer than anything, really. “Yeah, I have.”

“I’m sorry,” Luke mumbles. “It was my fault, wasn’t it?”

“What?” Ethan’s heart—the same one Luke is referring to—skips a beat, trips and stumbles through his chest. “What are you talking about?” 

“When I left you. You remember.” Luke’s crystal gaze is ruthless and searching, roaming the crooks of Ethan’s face. “I’m sorry. I just got scared.”

“Scared?” Ethan repeats. _Of course I remember. I think about it every day. I think about_ you _every day._

“Scared,” Luke confirms. Ethan wants to ask why, but he knows that Luke won’t answer, and so he doesn’t bother. “Forgive me?”

Part of Ethan doesn’t want to. It’s the lawyer part of him, the part he suspects he inherited from his mother, the part that believes things should be taken from the takers and given to the givers. But he sees, in his mind’s eye, Luke suffering in the same way he has, and he finds that he wouldn’t wish that on _anyone_ , least of all the person he loves. 

And so he says, “I’m forgiving you right now.” 

Relief washes over Luke’s face and it sets a warm glow to his skin. “Thank you.” And then the almost solemn moment is ruined when he leans forward eagerly, and he points to something he’s written on the journal—the words he’s pointing at lie just above the mountain peak. 

“So, here’s the climax,” he explains, pushing his glasses into position. “I know it’s a lot, so I’m not asking you to read the whole thing, but the two subjects involved _do_ kiss for the very first time, and I’m supposed to be writing this exact scene right now. Except—I can’t, because I don’t really know how to write it. I don’t know what it’s like to kiss someone I really care about. Like, I mean, I’ve kissed someone before, but I didn’t really… _like_ them.” 

“That’s easy,” says Ethan. “All you have to do is say that one character leans in, and then they kiss, and then you’re done.” 

Luke gives him a _look_. “It’s not that simple. You know this.” 

Ethan drops his hands so that they’re resting on his knees. “Yeah, I do. It’s just that I can’t really help you because I don’t know what it’s like either.” He pauses, puts a finger to his lips; he pretends that he doesn’t notice Luke gazing at him almost intently. “I guess you could do all the… _typical_ things, like the butterflies swirling in stomachs and the hearts skipping a beat or maybe _two_ beats or _three_ or maybe they stop altogether—”

Luke raises a single eyebrow. 

“Look, I don’t know, okay?” Ethan crosses his arms defensively. “ _You’re_ the writer. You’re creative. Why don’t _you_ think of alternate solutions?” 

Maybe his tone is a little too heated, because Luke bites out, “Oh, I’ll give you _alternate solutions._ Tell you what. Why don’t _we_ kiss?”

That’s when all thought flees Ethan’s brain.

He grapples helplessly for something to respond with, but all he can think is, _Luke Castellan wants to kiss me._

_Luke Castellan just said he wants to kiss me._

Oh, gods. 

Oh, Christ.

“I’m thinking we need to do this in a specific manner.” Luke is still talking; either he hasn’t noticed that Ethan is gaping at him like a fish, or he simply doesn’t care. “We’ll have to carry this out in an orderly, professional fashion. We don’t want to progress _too_ far with this.” 

And—nothing feels quite so real anymore. Ethan’s legs, his arms, his entire body is numb with shock. His face is hot to the touch and his palms are sweaty and he’s wallowing in mortification because his lips are—hell—they’re tingling with what could be anticipation and he hates himself for it and he wishes the feeling would stop but it _doesn’t_ —

“So.” Luke taps his mouth with the tip of his pen, and the action drags Ethan’s attention to his bottom lip. His bottom lip, which Ethan might soon be sinking his teeth into, pulling into his own mouth and—

_Stop it._

“Since this is strictly for professional purposes, and it’s supposed to inspire me, I think maybe you should pretend that you’re in love with me,” Luke continues conversationally, “and I’ll pretend that I’m in love with you. And then I’ll know what it’s like, so I can write about it. Also—I care about you. That works, too, right?” 

_Pretend._ Ethan tells himself that the words don't hurt at all. 

“Okay. Ready?” Suddenly Luke’s eyelids are slipping closed and he’s leaning in and Ethan is _frantic_ , heart hammering and lips trembling; without thinking, he places his hands on Luke’s chest and pushes him back gently. 

“W-wait a second,” he stammers, and when Luke furrows his eyebrows in confusion, Ethan realizes just how close he is to the other boy. He blurts out, “Your glasses. Here—” He reaches up and removes them, carefully placing them on the coffee table before taking a deep breath to steady himself and turning to face Luke again. 

“Okay,” he says tremulously, and he curses himself when his voice shakes. “I’m ready.” 

“Yeah?” says Luke, but he doesn’t give Ethan any time to respond. 

The first time they kiss, it is haphazard and their noses bump because the angle is all wrong, but it makes Ethan’s heart race all the same. 

The second time they kiss, Luke’s teeth clack against Ethan’s and Ethan pulls away with an exclamation of pain, but he can hear himself laughing, and realizes that Luke is laughing, too. 

The third time they kiss, Ethan’s lips find Luke’s as if they were made for each other, sculpted in a pair, and Ethan tangles his fingers through strands of Luke’s hair and he feels the warmth of Luke’s hands on his back through his T-shirt. He’s breathing in the slightly pungent odor of fresh paper and the scent of laundry detergent and _skin_ , and it’s Luke’s skin because Luke is _everywhere_. Luke is overwhelming all five of Ethan’s senses and wherever he touches, wherever he tastes, it’s _Luke_ he’s touching, it’s _Luke_ he’s tasting, and he's never believed that he’d be where he is now but he _is_ , and that’s all that matters. 

Ethan doesn’t want to, but eventually he has to pull away. When he opens his eye, he sees that Luke is just as flushed as he feels, and his blue eyes are dilated and— _wild_ , almost. 

“So, um,” Ethan says breathlessly, still trying to make sense of his hopelessly jumbled thoughts, “what did that feel like to you?” 

He listens to Luke’s ragged breathing for a few moments. _I’m the one who reduced him to this state,_ Ethan thinks, and the faint, warm glow of clandestine pride touches him at the thought. 

“Like I’ve been born anew,” Luke says, finally, after he’s somehow managed to regain control of his breathing. “I don’t know. It’s like—it’s like I feel _alive_ , but that doesn’t make any sense, because I’m alive anyway even when I’m not kissing anyone—”

“Well, I—I think it makes sense.” 

Luke casts him another sidelong glance. “You think so?”

“I do.” How else can he explain his heartbeat, sporting an abnormal pulse even after they broke apart? How else can he explain how acutely aware he is, suddenly, of every breath he takes, and the leftover adrenaline still surging through his veins?

He always knew that he was alive, of course, but now he actually feels like it. 

Luke takes his glasses from the table and slips them back onto his nose. He picks up his pen and squints at his notebook for a second before scribbling something; when he looks up, an enormous smile is taking up half of his face, and it makes Ethan smile, too. 

“Thanks for the help. I think I’ve got it down now.” Luke stands up from his crouched position and glances around the cramped studio apartment, keen eyes sweeping across the room. “Do you mind if I stay a little longer? I haven’t eaten yet. Maybe I could buy something downstairs and eat up here with you? Have you eaten?” 

“I wouldn’t mind if you decided to stay for the rest of the night,” Ethan tells Luke, and he blushes when he realizes just what he’s said. He seems to be blushing a lot, these days. He continues hastily, “And, no, I haven’t. I’ll go down with you.” 

Luke’s grin grows wider, and Ethan looks at him with the air of the considerably mystified. 

“Great,” Luke chirps jovially, and he _staggers_ , as if he hasn’t quite regained control of his limbs, through the door, and leaves Ethan to follow.

Twenty minutes later and they’re sitting on the sofa, devouring the sandwiches that they just bought at the Starbucks downstairs. Outside, the stars are twinkling like the knowing eyes of the gods and goddesses, and the moon is a lonely silver crescent suspended in the dark velvet of the sky. 

And that’s when Ethan realizes that it is, indeed, nighttime. The digital clock on the wall reads eleven o’clock. Ethan doesn’t think he’s been with Luke for _that_ long. They’ve only been writing and reading together and—Ethan experiences a thrill that wracks his body— _kissing_ , and now they’re sharing a belated dinner together. It couldn’t possibly have taken _three hours._

The world, Ethan decides, must be lying to him.

“I don’t think I ever asked you,” Ethan ventures slowly. When Luke fixes his stare on him, Ethan resists the urge to wince; he was feeling rather confident about asking this question, but now he isn’t quite so sure anymore. “Why—why did you leave, in the first place? Four years ago?” 

There’s a moment of silence, pulled taut with silence, in which Ethan’s heart leaps into his throat and nearly chokes him. He wants to look away, but doesn’t let himself, and so he sees Luke sigh heavily and drag his palms over his face. But then the moment is over, because Luke is answering in a hoarse, almost conspiratorial whisper, “I told you. I told you that I was scared.” 

“Scared of _what_?” Ethan presses. “You make it sound horrible, you know that? Like I’m a demon, or something.”

“It _was_ horrible—for both of us, I think.” Luke squints at Ethan, as if he suddenly can’t see all that well, but Ethan knows that Luke’s prescription isn’t _that_ bad. Maybe Luke is looking at him like he’s discovered a new person and can’t bring himself to believe it. “But you’re not a demon, Ethan. At least I don’t think so.” 

“Then why were you scared?” Ethan asks, at the same time he’s thinking that maybe he isn't a demon, but he still thinks Luke is...stellar. Celestial. Like an angel.

“I was…” At first Ethan thinks Luke is finally, finally going to explain himself, but the air captures his words and drags them away, and his voice trails off. 

“Look,” Ethan cuts in, and part of his mind registers the little crease between Luke’s eyebrows as he furrows them, but the greater part urges him to plow on, so he does. “Maybe I’ve put this the wrong way. You didn’t _leave_ , exactly, but then again you did. We were friends, weren’t we? And friends don’t just—don’t just _abandon_ each other without warning. And maybe I should be grateful that we’re back on good terms now, but I’d like to know what I did wrong so that it doesn’t happen again. So—”

“I was the one who wronged you. I’m sorry.” 

“I’ve already forgiven you,” Ethan says. “You don’t have to—”

“But I do,” Luke states, and his tone leaves no room for argument. But this moment is also when he finally lowers his eyes, and Ethan realizes that angels, no matter how celestial, can also be fucking _cowards_. “Can’t you see? I’ve caused you so much confusion these past four years—no, don’t deny it, I know I have, I know because I fucking did it on purpose—and here you are saying I’ve got nothing to be sorry about. You—you’re way too good to me.”

“I’m not saying you haven’t got anything to be sorry about,” Ethan tells him. “I’m saying that you do, but I’m forgiving you anyway.” _And I am not a good person_ , Ethan adds silently. 

“But you shouldn’t,” says Luke. “You were—are—my best friend and I deliberately cut off all connections with you just because I was frightened of what I felt that one day when—”

He stops abruptly. 

Ethan waits for him to continue, but he never does. 

“Oh, shit,” Luke mutters. “Forget it. Just forget it.”

“All right,” Ethan says quietly. “Do you want to talk about this another time?” 

“Actually, I’d rather never talk about this again. But,” he adds, looking at Ethan from beneath his lashes, “I’d do it for you.” 

Ethan doesn’t say it right away. He makes Luke wait a few beats, but then he gives in and says, “Thank you.” 

Luke sighs. “Don’t. I just want you to know that I hurt myself, too, when I did it. I ached for you. I think I might have ached all over.”

\- - -

Luke heads back home at the very ungodly hour of three in the morning.

Without his vibrant presence to color the apartment with the liveliness of actuality, it feels as though the world has come to an abrupt standstill, though Ethan knows that it’s a silly thought. Still, it's hard to not believe that, when Ethan dreams of blue skies and laughter and Luke's lips on his and the outside world is still swathed in impenetrable darkness.

The person he dreamt of, however, does not show up at the Ivory Café when Ethan checks in for his shift on Sunday. At first, he can’t decide if he’s relieved or disappointed, but as the days drag by and Luke still doesn’t show up, the answer becomes more and more evident.

He misses Luke’s presence like anything else. It might’ve been more bearable if Luke hadn’t kissed him— _for professional purposes_ —before simply disappearing, seemingly off the face of the very Earth. Maybe he’s just busy, what with being an author and everything; the guy probably _bathes_ in ink. Maybe Luke is mortified by their kiss, and he’s taken to avoiding Ethan. Maybe aliens abducted him. Really, how was Ethan supposed to know, what with two weeks and no word from Luke? 

Or—perhaps it wouldn’t have been more bearable, after all.

Ethan wonders if Luke’s gotten _scared_ again, but he doesn’t even know what scared Luke off the first time, so this theory quickly extinguishes itself on its own. 

On Saturday morning, Ethan arrives at the café an hour earlier than usual. He didn’t realize, however, that the café isn’t open at this hour, and he sighs, accepting the tedious task of standing outside in the bitter wind for forty-five minutes until it opens. 

Luckily, Silena shows up only fifteen minutes later, rummaging in her purse, no doubt searching for her keys. Ethan sees her before she sees him, and he calls over to her, “Morning, Silena!” 

Silena jumps, startled, and looks around for the voice before finally noticing him. “Ethan!” she says, wide smile painting her face. She’s wearing heart-shaped sunglasses today, and their dark ruby frames are a stark contrast to her porcelain cheeks, which have been paled even further by the wind. “What are you _doing_ out here? It’s _freezing._ Why are you so early? And,” she adds, practically slamming the keys into the lock and shoving the door open with her foot, “good morning to you, too, by the way.” 

Ethan considers telling her the truth—that for some reason he thought maybe Luke Castellan had taken to visiting the shop earlier, before Ethan’s shift, and Ethan had been hoping to catch him. He decides not to, but as he follows her into the shop, strangely cold and empty without the usual hustle and bustle, he changes his mind. 

“I was hoping I’d see Luke,” he tells Silena. 

She grins. “And I’m guessing you’ve become _fond_ of him, haven’t you?” 

“I, ah,” says Ethan, and he ducks his head and hopes he isn’t blushing again. “I have.” And the words are heavy on his tongue, but he feels better once he says them. Lighter. _Free._

Silena doesn’t recoil like he expects her to. Instead she her eyes brighten, and she says, “I _knew_ it. God, the _looks_ you’re always giving him when he’s looking somewhere else. I hurt all over just seeing you like that. It reminds me of how I felt, pining for Charlie.” She expels a breath, and a hint of sadness contaminates her smile. “I don’t think he deserves you.”

Ethan freezes; his fingers cease fumbling with the work apron. He can’t help but stare at her, dumbfounded. “Yeah? Why not?” 

Silena comes around to the pastry case. She purses her lips and taps the glass twice with her knuckles. “Ethan, I’m glad that you’ve stopped running away from it, I really am. But you care for him so much you’d burn the whole world if you thought it would make him happy, and he might be a writer, but you’re only the margin notes, the acknowledgments page that people hardly ever read, in his story.” Her eyes are conflicted, like a gray sky that promises rain but neglects to shed it. “I just don’t want him to hurt you more than he already has.”

“How did you—?”

“I’m a friend of _Thalia_. And Luke tells her _everything._ ”

Sometime during her monologue, the apron has slipped through Ethan’s numb, unmoving hands; now he bends down to retrieve it. This time he ties the knots quickly, with practiced ease, lest his hands lose their feeling again. He tightens these knots almost vigorously. 

“I think you’re wrong,” he says, his voice shaky and uneven and _broken_ , even to his own ears.

“The reason why you haven’t been seeing him lately, Ethan,” Silena confides softly, “is because he only visits on the days when he knows you’re not working your shifts here. He’s been avoiding you. Do you still think I’m wrong?” 

Ethan remembers Luke showing his work to him. He remembers the way Luke behaved on Monday night, honest and open and grateful; he remembers how Luke felt in his arms, soft and warm and pliant. “I feel alive,” he said, and Ethan feels an odd ache upon the memory.

But he also doesn’t forget that Luke completely cut off all his ties to Ethan for four years with no explanation, and for all Ethan knows, he’s planning on doing the exact same thing a second time. 

Then again, didn’t Luke say that he hurt himself, too, the first time?

Ethan is so, so confused.

“Maybe you’re right,” Ethan intones to Silena slowly. “But maybe you’re wrong. I’m sorry, Silena, but I’m hoping you’re wrong. 

“I understand,” she says, but she still looks concerned. She stands on the tips of her toes and kisses Ethan on both cheeks. “Just be careful, all right? If not for your own sake, then for mine.”

“I will,” Ethan promises, and then Silena flips the sign on the door so that it reads, “Yes, we’re open!” instead of “Sorry, we’re closed.”

The two of them don’t mention Luke again for the rest of Ethan’s shift. 

\- - -

Ethan has to admit that Silena might have a point, however, when his phone buzzes in his pocket halfway through his shift. He glances around to make sure Silena and Lou Ellen won’t accuse him of slacking on the job before he pulls it out. The bright screen greets him with two texts from Luke. 

_Don’t come over on Tuesday. I won’t be home_ , is what the first one reads. Ethan’s heart plummets when he reads the second one, which says, _Same applies for Thursday._

Ethan looks up briefly to make sure both of the girls are still nowhere to be seen before typing up his response. _Do you still want to meet up next week?_

Luke doesn’t respond immediately. Ethan risks having his phone out for five more minutes, and when Luke still doesn’t, he heaves a sigh and shoves his phone back into the depths of his pocket. 

“Something wrong, Ethan?” Lou Ellen asks, coming out from the storage room and turning on the tap. She coats her hands in soap and water, and looks over her shoulder at Ethan, lips pursed in concern. “You seem a little put out. Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“Peachy,” Ethan grumbles, but he still somehow manages to smile at the next customer who stops at the cash register to place an order. 

Ethan doesn’t hear his phone buzz again, but it must have done so sometime during his shift, because when he gets home and checks his texts again, he sees that Luke has sent another one. He supposes it’s a little stupid to be so elated, but he _is_. It’s not like he can help it. 

Because Luke has sent: _There’s a book signing in February. See you there?_

\- - -

The weeks pass by with no further word from Luke, only stories that Ethan overhears from Silena and Thalia’s conversations about Luke doing _this_ and Luke doing _that_. He only ever hears about Luke from other people and, occasionally, the newspapers. His new book is released in January, and Ethan is the first in a mile-long line of people hoping to obtain a signed copy. When Ethan asks for an unsigned copy instead, the bookseller gives him an odd look, but obliges without comment. 

“Do you know when Castellan’s next book signing is going to be?” Ethan asks casually, ignoring the not-so-discreet grumbling of the person behind him. 

This time the bookseller goggles at him, hazel eyes widening almost comically behind his round glasses. “The day after Valentine’s Day, I believe, sir,” he answers. Then he gestures to the tottering tower of signed books on the table before him. “But we have the signed copies here, sir, and you can purchase one if you’d like—”

“I’m aware of that, yes,” Ethan says breezily. “Do you happen to know _where_ this book signing will take place?” 

“At the college library three blocks from here, I believe.” Again, the bookseller gestures towards the pile of books. “You know, sir, if you _really_ want to get your book signed—”

Ethan ignores him and holds up the unsigned copy in his hand. “How much for this?” he asks instead. 

He pays for the book and leaves the stuffy bookstore, ignoring the relieved sighs of the people standing behind him. On any other day, he might have glared at someone, but right now, the only thing he can do is realize the fact that the _college library three blocks from here_ —that’s _his_ college. That’s _his_ school. 

As he exits the bookstore, he allows himself a minute to wonder whether Luke deliberately chose this location, if perhaps he planned to meet Ethan ahead of time. Then he remembers— _of course_ —that his school is where Luke also graduated. It was Luke’s school, too, at one point.

 _You’re thinking too much_ , he chides himself. The sun is shining brilliantly outside on the streets, warmth beating down on the pavement despite the winter day. He knows that Luke probably didn’t choose to host his book signing at the college just to see Ethan, but Ethan finds that he doesn’t care. A small chance of seeing Luke again is still no less of a chance, after all. 

Chances. Ethan seems to be getting a lot of those lately.

\- - -

_Merry Christmas, asshole._

That’s what Ethan texts Luke next Saturday, sitting at one of the tables in the Ivory. It probably isn’t the best tactic to gain the boy’s attention, but then again, Ethan has never been able to make rational decisions about Luke Castellan. 

He doesn’t expect a reply, so his heart leaps into his throat when Luke texts back, _Christmas was a week ago, dunderhead._

_No sign of you for almost a month and you’re calling me a dunderhead?_ Ethan can’t help but smile. _That’s hardly fair._

_You called me an asshole first._

A little laugh bubbles up inside him out of nowhere and escapes through his mouth before he can stop it. It’s only now, during the first little bit of interaction with Luke, that he lets himself admit just how much he’s _really_ missed the other boy.

“Well, _you_ certainly look happy,” Silena observes, sliding into the chair across from him. Silena watches Thalia flirt almost shamelessly with Bianca di Angelo over the counter; a little smirk plays at the corner of her bubblegum pink lips. She turns to Ethan. “What’s up?”

He sets his phone facedown on the table; his first instinct is to tell her that it isn’t any of her business. But Silena already knows of his affections, and he’s also beginning to think of her as a friend, anyway, and so he turns his phone over again and tells her, “It’s nothing, really. It’s just Luke.” 

“ _Just Luke_?” Silena repeats incredulously. “Since when did Luke become _just Luke_ to you?” She narrows her eyes. “Have you given up already?” 

“No,” Ethan says without thinking. “Gods, no. I don’t think I ever will.” 

It’s only after Silena’s stared at him for several long seconds that the weight of his words finally sinks in. He clears his throat. Swallows. “I just sent him a Merry Christmas text,” he offers, examining the sight of his fingers lying atop the upturned screen of his smartphone. It doesn’t help very much, though, because he can still feel Silena’s bright eyes boring into him. 

“Christmas was a week ago,” she says, finally. 

“I’m aware.” Despite himself, Ethan feels another smile suddenly sneaking onto his countenance. 

He looks over at Thalia and Bianca, who are now gazing into each other’s eyes and smiling dreamily at each other. They look, for all the world, like the two lovestruck protagonists of a sappy romance film. He wonders if he looks at Luke like that, too. He hopes he doesn’t.

It’s not even February yet, and the air is already brimming with unuttered confessions—Ethan’s included. 

“So what are you going to do?” Silena asks, startling him out of his reverie. “About Luke, I mean.” 

Ethan thinks for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admits. “All I know is that he’s having a book signing at the college and he’s asked me to see him there.” He looks out the window and watches a beaten-down antique Chevrolet the color of sunflowers and dust rumble noisily down the street, still functioning despite all the little details that would suggest otherwise. “I can’t decide if I’m content loving him like this, in secret, or if I’d rather let him know how I feel.” He adds softly, “But I think he has a right to know.”

“But you love him,” Silena says, “no matter what you’ll decide. You love him.”

It isn’t a question, but Ethan still says, “I do.”

\- - -

January passes by in the manner of prey skittering away from a predator; thirty-one days pass in the blink of an eye, and suddenly shop windows are sporting bright pink paper hearts instead of pictures of fireworks and “Happy New Year!” banners. As the days inch closer and closer to the fifteenth of February, Ethan reads Luke’s novel in one sitting, and he also finds himself overcome with what can only be nerves and the jitters and a strange sort of downplayed anxiety. He supposes this is normal. Crushes feel like this, don’t they? But _crush_ is too small, too modest a word, and _in love_ is too daunting a phrase to contemplate, but that’s the truth, isn’t it? He’s in love, he’s _still_ in love, and it’s... _scary._ He really doesn’t know what he’ll do when he goes to the book signing, but he doesn’t even bother trying to form a coherent plan of action. It’s Luke, after all. He’s always been able to just— _wing it_. He doesn’t need to worry _too_ much.

He still worries a little bit, though. 

Silena’s temporarily closed the Ivory Café because she’s on honeymoon with her husband, Beckendorf, so Ethan’s taken to volunteering at the food bank instead, more out of the desperate need to have something to keep himself busy with than anything else. Graduation is rapidly approaching, and he has no idea what he’s going to do with his life after he finishes college; he hates math, so finance and accounting and things like that aren’t very appealing to him at all. He doesn’t understand science at all—he only just barely passed his physics course—and he can’t write or design to save his life, so being an artist is out of the picture, too.

Or _is_ it, really? He’s drawn before. He’s drawn the pictures for Luke’s comic book. Maybe—maybe art _isn’t_ out of the picture.

Ladling out steaming minestrone soup for timid elders, he finds, really helps with the stress. The people at the food bank don’t wince or shy away at the sight of his eye patch, in any case. 

On the day after Valentine’s Day, Ethan finds himself constantly using his phone to check the college website despite the fact that he’s memorized the specifics of the occasion and is capable of reciting the details by heart. He’s _not_ obsessed. He’s overreacting. He’s just…afraid that there might be last-minute schedule changes, or something that might completely throw off his…date…with Luke, if he can even call it a date. He’s not sure _what_ to call it, really. He’s not completely sure what’s going on between him and Luke.

He refreshes the library page one last time, and then he leaves the apartment shouldering his school bag. 

But when Ethan arrives at the school and sees Luke for the first time in months, he isn’t overcome with joy or relief like he expected to be. Instead all that he feels is an all-encompassing _rage_ ; it blossoms from somewhere in his stomach and spreads from there so that it’s enveloping his entire being. 

Because Luke has just— _disappeared_ again, hasn’t he? Hasn’t he just done the same thing he said he’d never do again? And here he is, real and undeniable before Ethan’s eyes, and he’s grinning and laughing at winking at flustered teenagers before signing the pages with a flourish as if he isn’t the walking, breathing cause of Ethan’s recent lonely months. 

_Fuck_ him, honestly.

There are far more people crowded inside the library than Ethan’s ever thought possible, and he has to practically fight his way towards Luke’s table, where Thalia Grace is standing, conversing with a stoic-faced woman that Ethan assumes must be Luke’s agent, or something. 

When Luke sees him, a vibrant crimson blush colors his face right up to the very roots of his hair, the pale jagged scar a sharp contrast to the sudden color of his cheeks, but a sudden abundance of elation causes his lips to quirk upwards and a light to enter his eyes. “Ethan!” he calls. “Oh, you came!”

Ethan takes a brief moment to appreciate the sight. 

All of the joy leaves his expression, however, when he realizes just how horrible Ethan looks, and he all but rasps, “Ethan?” 

Ethan lets loose a laugh, but it is mirthless and crazed and almost scary, and he witnesses Luke wincing at the guttural sound. “You did it again.” 

Luke says nothing. He merely looks up at Ethan, seemingly astonished. He swallows audibly before saying, “Are you angry with me? God, you’re angry with me.” 

“No word from you in a month, and no sight of you for even longer?” Ethan looks at him. “Of _course_ I’m angry. Are you kidding?” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ethan registers Thalia casting something that could be a knowing smirk in their direction, but Ethan doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the small circle of dawdlers at the table stopping to gawk at the two of them. He doesn’t care about anything except this maddeningly beautiful boy in front of him, the same one Ethan nearly lost again, the same one Ethan still loves despite everything, everything, the one he loves beyond all reason.

But he finds that there is, after all, no shame in loving someone, and his anger almost dissipates at the thought. Almost. 

“Oh,” Luke says, but his voice is subdued and it sounds more like a whisper. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. “Oh. _Oh._ I’m sorry. I just had some business to take care of.” 

“Yeah? What was their name?” Ethan spits out before thinking. 

He regrets the words immediately when a look of unmistakable anguish crosses Luke’s face. He stands up, with, it seems, no small amount of difficulty, swaying slightly on his feet as if he can’t quite comprehend the situation. 

“Is that what’s bothering you?” Luke inquires lowly.

“I—” Ethan falters, because _yes_ , goddammit, that’s exactly what’s eating at his mind, but he’s loath to admit it. 

“Listen.” Luke leans in, no trace of mocking etched on his expression. He’s all business, stern and unforgiving in the manner of someone who always gets what he wants. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll take you out for lunch during my break. We can go to the Ivory if you like—”

“The Ivory’s closed. Silena’s on honeymoon with Beckendorf.” 

In spite of his position, Luke’s mouth twitches, like he’s fighting back a smile. “Is she really?” 

“Yes,” says Ethan. “That’s why the Ivory’s closed till next week.”

Luke considers. “Well,” he muses, “I suppose there’s always that Italian place down the street.” He pauses, glances around, as if he’s only just remembered that he and Ethan aren’t the only ones in the room, and that there are people who are witnessing the sight of Luke Castellan asking Ethan Nakamura on a lunch date, and the whole incident will probably be splashed across the front pages tomorrow. “I—yeah,” he finishes lamely. 

Ethan pretends to contemplate. “Okay,” he says. 

Luke’s expression is endearingly hopeful, and Ethan feels his heartbeat stutter. “Okay?” 

“Yeah,” Ethan says. “Definitely. But I still want some answers, you know. Some, if not all.” 

Luke looks to Thalia beseechingly, but she’s already resumed talking to the stern-faced woman. 

It takes him a while to respond, and Ethan thinks he’ll refuse again, but then he says, “Okay. Okay, yeah.” 

Taken aback, Ethan balks. “ _Really_?” 

“Really.” 

“No more running away, this time?” 

Luke casts him a doubtful glance. “Have _you_ stopped?”

Ethan considers. _Has_ he? Has he stopped running—from Luke, from the doubts and fears that gnash his teeth? Has he stopped running from _himself_? 

“Yeah,” he says. “I have.” 

Luke exhales again. “Then—then yes, I suppose. No more running away this time.” 

Beaming, Ethan reaches over and grasps Luke’s hand in his. “Thank you.”

\- - -

The two of them are the only ones occupying a table. It's silent except for the water trickling and burbling and frothing in the miniature fountain in the middle of the room.

The interior has been decorated lavishly, with statues of Roman gods and goddesses and framed oil paintings of the Venetian canals. Even the _tablecloth_ is of intricate design, pristine and polished with golden embroidery crawling around the edges.

Ethan’s a little intimidated.

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” Luke asks, pulling out his chair. “You seemed pretty upset earlier.”

Ethan’s laugh is hollow. “That’s because I was.”

“I’d apologize to you again, but the truth is that I still don’t really understand what I should be apologizing _for_. And,” says Luke, “you’re the only one who can tell me.” 

It is at this point that their server stops by to take their orders. As the stammering teenager—he looks like he might be high school age—sets down glasses of water on the table, Luke’s eyes don’t leave Ethan, and Ethan finds that he’s staring back. 

He isn’t afraid of Luke. He never has been. 

The waiter leaves, and as soon as he does, Luke presses, “So?”

A thousand different responses race through Ethan’s mind. Several of them clamber to escape through his mouth, but the one that makes it out sounds like, “You know I’ve been crushing on you for ages, don’t you?” 

He wants to hit himself when he sees the bewildered look on Luke’s face. 

But he doesn’t. 

_No more running away._

“I—” Luke stops and tries again. “Ages?” 

“Ages.” 

Luke leans back in his chair and lets out a breath; his hands come up to rub at his eyes. “Wow.” 

Ethan doesn’t know how to respond. Is Luke’s reaction something that should be bothering him? “So you _did_ know?” 

“I suspected, certainly.” He’s doing it again; dropping his voice, lowering it to a whisper, lacing it with secrets. It is a tone reserved for clandestine lovers. “I thought—I _thought_. But I never let myself believe.” 

No, Ethan decides. Luke’s reaction isn’t something that should bother him, after all.

“If you knew,” Ethan says, just as quietly, “then why did you—the trust, the kindness, the journals—” and his voice breaks a little here, “—the kiss, the—the disappearing acts—?”

“Ah,” Luke breathes. He leans forward, crosses his arms on the table, and rests his head on his wrists. “It’s…complicated.”

“I think I have a right to know.”

“Yes, you do,” Luke agrees. He sighs; his hand comes up to rub at his temples. “I don’t know where to start.” 

“The beginning might be a good place,” Ethan suggests. 

Luke frowns. “I don’t know if there _is_ a beginning. It’s a little strange, because I feel like I’ve always known you, or at least like I was supposed to know you. I feel like, somehow, it’s always been you, and it’s always _going_ to be you.” 

Ethan doesn’t know what Luke is talking about. “Just try, then,” he grits out, annoyed.

Luke is silent for the briefest of moments before he straightens and begins to nod. “I guess I could start where I first— _left_ you, for lack of anything else to call it.”

“You could, yes.”

“You tried to kiss me that day, didn’t you? Or maybe _I_ tried to kiss _you_ ,” Luke continues, and as he says the words, Ethan can picture the scene clearly, although the image is slightly rusted with age. But he remembers snow; he remembers New Year’s Eve, the twenty-four hour coffee shop at their college, the waiter texting on his smartphone and attempting to listen in on their conversation. 

“And I told you I was scared,” says Luke, “although I don’t think I ever told you why.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Luke opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, the server returns, precariously balancing two steaming plates on either hand. Ethan wants to _scream_ , he’s so frustrated; the server could not have chosen a worse moment in time to approach, because apparently Luke isn’t going to spill when there’s someone other than Ethan who might listen. 

Ethan has to resist the urge to glower at the waiter once the food is all laid out, but Luke thanks him, and the teen casts him a look of sincere gratitude in response, although he doesn’t say anything as he turns to leave. But then he turns back, squints at Luke and says, “ _Hey_ —aren’t you Luke Castellan?” 

“I am,” Luke says mildly, “and I don’t appreciate being called out like that. I’m going to cordially request that you don’t out me to the public at large.”

The server looks properly chastised. “Of course. Sorry, sir,” and then he scuttles away. 

Luke shakes his head when he’s gone. “I _hate_ that. People recognize me everywhere. And what’s with the _sir_? I’m not his boss or anything. I’m just a person. A person who can write, but still a person, no less. It’s horrific.” 

“I can imagine,” says Ethan. “But maybe he was calling you _sir_ to be polite. It's standard procedure and maybe you don't know that because you're a fool who always insists on changing the subject.” 

Luke’s face adopts an expression that is not unlike that of their server as he hastened away. “You caught me there.” 

_Of course I did_ , Ethan thinks, but out loud he says, “You’re still doing it.” 

“It’s just that I felt things I thought I shouldn’t be feeling,” Luke admits. “When we almost kissed, I mean. I don’t think I was quite ready to face myself at the time—couldn’t face the startling fact of how I felt. And that’s what it all comes down to, isn’t it? _Feelings_.” He stops to laugh. It is not a chortle full of mirth; no, it is dry and humorless and flat as the Ozark Plateau. “We were friends and I guess I didn’t want to jeopardize that by attempting a—a _romantic relationship_ , you know? I guess part of me thought it might all go down in flames if we tried.” Luke stops and looks out the window. “And I told you. I was just—”

“Scared,” Ethan finishes softly. 

“Yes.” Luke’s lips barely move, but the word is stated clearly enough, and it pierces the air, stirs it so that the atmosphere is brimming with the single syllable.

Because Ethan thinks he understands now. He understands that perhaps Luke went through equally devastating years; he knows that they’re both broken and blurred and a little frayed around the edges. And he understands—gods, _finally_ , he understands—that despite everything, despite the fear and the confusion and the painful nostalgia they’ve caused each other, they’re _healing_. And they’re healing together, healing each other. 

“Tell me,” Ethan says, even though he thinks he already knows the answer, “what was the feeling you were so afraid of?”

Luke smiles. “This,” he says, and he leans forward and captures Ethan’s lips in another kiss. 

And there are no angels. There are no demons. There’s only Ethan reaching up to skim his fingers across the back of Luke’s neck to pull him closer, and Luke’s laughter, sweet in Ethan’s mouth.

\- - -

In May, Ethan graduates from college. His mother doesn’t show up to the ceremony even though she promised she would, but Silena does, and so does Lou Ellen, much to Ethan’s surprise. Luke does, too, even though he has to dodge the cameramen and reporters trying to get a word—the more daring reporters actually try to get _two_ —out of him.

Ethan still doesn’t know what he’s going to do with his life, but he finds that that’s okay, really, because he still has more than enough time to figure it out. After all, Van Gogh didn’t start painting until the age of twenty-eight, and Ethan is only twenty-one.

He tells this to Silena when she asks, once more, what he’s going to do, and in turn, she tells him to try his hand at _art_ , of all things. At first he snorts, but he signs up for an art class anyway. And then, after a few weeks of the courses, Ethan finds that Silena was right, as usual, because he knows what his talent is, finally.

When he’s been dating Luke for a year, Ethan moves out of his apartment to live with him. He doesn’t care if the action raises eyebrows; for the first time in who _knows_ how long, he’s finally content and _happy_ , and he doesn’t really know why, but he suspects it has something to do with the fact that he’s stopped running. He’s stopped lying, too, and smiling to strangers at the Ivory doesn’t make him feel as strained as it used to. 

He supposes waking up every morning to sunlight streaming through the windows and an armful of snoring Luke Castellan doesn’t hurt, either. Neither does searching for Luke’s glasses around the house when the other boy inevitably loses them for the umpteenth time, or holding Luke during those moments when his carefree façade finally falters and he lets himself cry, or kissing Luke good night, or trying to talk him out of his dangerous caffeine addiction, or—or _anything_ about Luke, really. Even the fights, which they still occasionally have, but Ethan knows that’s inevitable, what with them being the people they are. 

In August, Ethan receives a job offer in San Francisco. There’s a company that needs illustrators and graphic designers for their website; fortunately for them, Ethan’s capable of fulfilling both roles. 

“San Francisco?” Luke says, voice rising with incredulity, when Ethan shows him the letter. “You know that’s all the way across the whole damn country, don’t you?” 

“Of course I do,” Ethan replies evenly. He watches Luke carefully, sees the conflicting emotions flickering on and off like broken fluorescent lights, fighting to gain dominance over his expression. 

In the end, it’s resignation that wins. “I can’t stop you, can I?” 

“No,” Ethan admits. 

They’re sitting at the dining table; Luke’s breakfast is still untouched in favor of reading the letter—there's a mug of black tea by his elbow, _not_ coffee—while Ethan’s plate is nearly clear. Luke blows out a breath. “When will I see you again?” 

Ethan grins. “I’m not even gone yet and you already miss me.” 

Luke throws up his hands in a defensive gesture. “You were the one who had a crush on me _for ages_.” 

And Ethan has to laugh at that, too. “You’re _never_ going to shut up about that, are you?” When Luke gives him a withering glare, he says, “I’m going to be there for six months.” 

“Six months?” 

“And another six months if I take up the illustrator position as well.”

“So you’ll be gone for a year.” Luke looks to the ceiling. “Oh, God.” 

“Hey,” Ethan says, and he reaches across the table and takes Luke’s hands in his own, the way he wanted to do four years ago at their college’s coffee shop. “Don’t say it like that. I’m not going to be _gone_. I’m not _leaving_ you.” He traces the lines on Luke’s palm with his finger. “Besides, it’s only a single year, compared to the rest of the time we have.” 

“But what if that isn’t very long?” Luke asks, and from the way he frowns and avoids meeting Ethan’s eye, instead focusing intently on his hand cupped in Ethan’s, Ethan can tell that the question has been bothering him for a while. “What if we don’t have much time left?” 

Ethan’s been thinking about this, too, but that doesn’t mean he has an answer. He brings Luke’s hand to his mouth and kisses the back of it to stall for time; he’s rewarded when Luke shivers slightly. And then he says, “I can’t guarantee anything, Luke. I don’t know what the hell’s in store for us. I’m not a fortune-teller or anything. But I think I fell in love with you because you inspired me, and I don’t think that’s the sort of feeling that you just forget.” 

When Luke is silent, Ethan goes on, “My art teacher instructed us to picture the source of our inspiration, our motivation, what keeps us going, you know, and I sketched out a portrait of you from memory. It wasn’t all that accurate,” he admits, “because I’d misplaced your blemishes, _here_ —” he touches Luke’s neck, just below his jaw, “—and I forgot the freckle _here_ —” he touches the side of Luke’s nose, “—and your scar—” he traces the length of it with his index finger, “—turns a sharp right at the bottom, not a sharp left like I’d drawn. And,” he adds, “the paint I used for your eyes was the wrong shade of blue.”

He shakes his head. “My teacher recognized the picture, of course. And she said I’d captured your likeness perfectly. But I didn’t.” 

Luke sits in stunned silence for what feels like eons, and Ethan has just begun to feel fidgety under his stare when he breaks into a smile. “Is that your way of saying you’ll never give up on me?” 

“As long as you don’t give me any reasons not to.” 

“Good,” Luke says, “because I wrote poetry about you, too. You know that short story I showed you, ages ago? The one where the two characters kiss for the first time?”

“The time when we kissed for _professional purposes_?” Ethan asks.

Luke looks away. “Yes, well. There was no short story and it wasn’t for professional purposes. It was all just a ploy. I just wanted you to kiss me.”

And Ethan’s reeling at the revelation, but he’s warm all over at the same time. “Honestly,” he murmurs, “I don’t think we have to worry about time, right now.”

“I believe you.” Luke nods, and then he repeats himself more firmly, “I believe you.” He pauses. “When will you be leaving for San Francisco?” 

“Within a week from today.” Ethan leans back and downs his glass of water. 

“God,” Luke says again. “You know I’ll miss you.” 

“Luke, I’m not even leaving yet—”

“I’ll write about you every night, and I’ll mail the papers to you—”

“Can't you just make a FictionPress account or something and give me your username and post your writing there? Mail takes _forever_ —”

“But what if someone else _sees_ it?” 

Ethan chokes back a laugh and manages to avoid spluttering and spitting out his water. He shakes his head and grins. “How about I text you every morning in San Francisco so you can talk to me just before you go to sleep here in New York?”

“ _Call_ me, if you have the time. That way I can hear your voice. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Sing me a lullaby. A different one for every night.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Ethan says, and this time he can’t hold back his laughter.

\- - -

Ethan jerks awake in the middle of the night, sitting up so quickly that his head slams painfully against the headboard. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, and his hand comes up to rub at his aching temples. 

“Sorry,” Luke whispers. His voice is disembodied in the dark; Ethan squints, but he still can’t see him, and so he gropes around blindly until he finds Luke’s fingers and clasps them in his own. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“Jesus, Luke,” Ethan says again. “What time is it?”

“Past midnight. Like, two, maybe three in the morning.” There’s a pause. “Actually, I don’t know. But I’m fairly certain it’s past midnight.”

“You’re _fairly certain_ ,” Ethan repeats dryly. 

There’s a faint rustling sound and the blankets shift ever so slightly. Ethan imagines Luke nodding. 

“Do you remember the comic book project?” he mumbles. His fingers are tightening around Ethan’s.

“Of course I do,” says Ethan. 

“I used to look through the sketchbook all the time when I missed you. Your drawings, you know. I used to trace the pencil marks with my index finger. I imagined that I could still see the ghost of your wrist moving across the page.” 

“That’s funny,” says Ethan. “I used to do the same thing at college when you left your diaries unattended.” 

“So you _did_ go through my diaries?” 

“You left them on my bed by mistake that one time and I was _crushing_ on you! What else could I have done? What if you’d had some secret crush I didn’t know about?”

“I—” Luke begins, but then he stops, seemingly too incredulous to properly respond. “I can’t believe went through my diaries. Did you ever read the vermillion one?”

“What the _fuck_ is vermillion?” 

“It’s a bright shade of red.”

“I don’t—” Ethan stops himself, because he _does_ remember, suddenly, and in startling, startling clarity, too. “I did. That was the first one I ever read.”

Luke sits up abruptly, releasing Ethan’s hand in the process, and the mattress dips slightly beside Ethan. “Seriously? Then you should’ve known I was writing about _you_ , too!” 

“How was _I_ to know? I didn’t see my name anywhere. All I saw was the word _angel_ over and over again, and I knew that was some sort of code name but I didn’t know who you were talking about—”

Luke laughs. “ _Angel_ was the name I used for you, in case someone decided to go snooping around in my diaries.” His laugh turns into a helpless chortle. “Of course _you_ were the snoop.”

“I—” Ethan’s throat is dry as the desert. “I had no idea.” 

“Of course you didn’t,” says Luke, and there’s a thick layer of fondness in his tone. He pulls Ethan closer, buries his nose in the crook of Ethan’s neck, and just _breathes_.

“There’s only…us, isn’t there?” Luke says huskily, and he moves away from Ethan, rolls over so that he’s staring at the ceiling. “Us. You, with your paintings and the way you dragged breath after breath into your lungs even when you didn’t want to, and me, with my writing and the way I ran and ran until I couldn’t anymore. It was all just _us_. There are no angels.” 

“No angels,” Ethan agrees. “No demons, either.”

And it’s silent again except for their breathing. Ethan presses his head to Luke’s chest, listens to the steady _thump-thump-thump_ of the other boy’s heart. He feels his own pulse sounding in time with Luke’s in a harmonic sort of melody. It’s a pretty one, he finds himself thinking. Like a song that everyone used to know, but forgot about until now.

He’s on the verge of falling asleep again when he hears a voice saying softly, “I never really told you, did I?”

Ethan suppresses a yawn. “What?”

“I love you,” Luke whispers. A hand reaches up to card through Ethan’s hair, and Ethan shivers, though he’s warmer than the western sun. 

“I already knew, anyway,” Ethan murmurs. This time he really can’t stop himself from yawning.

“But you do, too?” 

“Do I what?” 

“Love me.” 

Ethan opens his eye blearily, although it’s a waste of effort, anyway, because the room is still so dark that he can’t see anything. “Of course I do.” 

“Can I…” Luke’s voice is hesitant, tentative, quiet, almost inaudible. _Vulnerable._ And it’s this vulnerability, the bare truth of the moment, that makes Ethan’s chest clench upon the realization that Luke _trusts_ him. It's indescribable; Ethan guesses the words would lift up from the page if Luke ever tried to write them down. “Can I hear you say it?” 

“I love you,” says Ethan, and somewhere in his drowsed mind, he registers that he isn’t surprised by how easily the words rise to his lips, how easily they roll off his tongue. 

He hears Luke hum to himself a little before the sound gives way to the beginnings of snores.

\- - -

San Francisco isn’t anything like Ethan expected.

He pictured sunshine twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week, palm trees lining the streets, and the far-off sound of waves crashing on the beach constantly plaguing his ears. Instead he’s greeted with streets that smell like piss and unpredictable weather that changes like a chameleon’s camouflage flesh; one second, the sun is blinding and ferocious and relentless in its heat, and the next, gray clouds have obscured it and rain is pouring, pattering on rooftops and pounding on the tops of pedestrians’ umbrellas. 

The company he works for pays him well, and so he’s capable of renting another studio apartment, only this time he makes it a point to keep it free of clutter. And he likes his job, too; he gets to do what he loves best with people that he actually works well with. Piper McLean—that’s his coworker’s name. She reminds him of Silena, a little bit; he knows that, with time, he and Piper could be fast friends. 

Time passes. Silena is pregnant with her first child; she informs Ethan of the news over the phone, and she’s so ecstatic that her joy radiates through the speakers and touches him, even though he’s all the way across the country. Lou Ellen moves back to South Korea because her grandfather has fallen ill, Thalia Grace pursues her lifelong dream and starts her own band, and Luke Castellan signs a contract with a different publishing company.

Luke Castellan—it’s the name that resonates through Ethan’s mind every night, even when he doesn’t want it to. It’s the name of the person he paints during his free time. It’s the name of the person he calls every morning when his voice is still blurred by sleep. 

And Ethan _does_ call Luke—it’s the first thing he does as soon as he wakes up, no matter how drowsy he is. He _promised_ , after all. Except—he doesn’t do a very good job of it, because sometimes he’s so exhausted that he dozes off in the middle of their phone conversations. 

But he thinks that’s okay, because sometimes Luke does the same thing, too. 

He buys postcards for Luke—the ones with stunning shots of the Golden Gate Bridge, or the ones with stunning shots of the _Bay_ Bridge. He sketches the lesser-known bridges by hand, the ones that never got the honor of being captured in photographs—the San Mateo Bridge, the San Rafael Bridge, and whatever else—on expensive drawing paper and mails them to Luke, despite saying that knowing that it’ll take ages to reach him. Unlike Luke, Ethan’s never been good with words, so this is his way of saying that he’s still reaching for Luke across stretches of time and distance.

And when Luke calls him and says that he misses him, Ethan always makes some kind of clever joke and promises he’ll be back soon, but what he never tells Luke is that he misses him, too. At one point, he passes by the Barnes and Noble at the shopping center and sees Luke’s books on display, and he’s overcome with a sudden surge of a strange sort of sadness, of wistfulness, of a yearning that he can’t quite explain. 

There are times when he wishes he had the courage to tell Luke that yes, he misses him too, so strongly and consistently that it’s almost like a physical ache, and it’s always the most peculiar feeling in the world to wake up to the cawing of crows outside instead of obnoxiously loud snores. But most of the time Ethan thinks that Luke already knows, that Luke can tell just from the postcards that Ethan sends and the way his voice occasionally cracks with emotion over the phone.

They understand each other, after all. Perhaps they always have. 

So Ethan lets the world take its course. He lets the time chug by and doesn’t try to chase the hours, doesn’t try to catch the seconds with his bare hands. He doesn’t run anymore, because he knows, now, that he can’t control _everything_ , and he’ll end up upsetting himself again if he tries. 

And anyway, he doesn’t _need_ to try. The world, after all, isn’t his to control; all he _can_ do is try his best to prepare for whatever chance decides to toss his way. He has an idea, though. He has a slight inkling—or, then again, maybe it’s only wishful thinking, but it’s still a chance and Ethan thinks that has to count for something—of what will happen next. 

He pictures it like this: art, and strong black tea, and arriving home.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always appreciated!!


End file.
